Sometimes I must remind myself of the “why.”
Delete that … not sometimes, many times.
Still self-doubting after all these years. The writer’s plague. My own private dark ages.
About the mood shifts … the fine line between heavenliness and hellishness … let’s not delve too deeply. This is a family newspaper, after all.
I still have to remind myself about 2012, way back when one of my essays was mentioned on a lengthy list of other writers’ essays also referenced on the “Notable Essays” list in The Best American Essays 2012 book. Never mind that the essay referenced was not actually published in that best essays book. Only its title, “History of the Kiss,” appeared. Only the best of the best essays were fully published in that golden collection, not the notables. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. That’s me. An unnoticed notable to the end. Still, a little victory goes a long way. Hello obscurity, my old friend. Obscure, yes … but at least not invisible.
Such remembrance serves as the strike of a mental match.
The return of spark, the call of the creative.
A dance of light in a very dark tunnel, a small much-needed sense of ascension before the dreaded descent.
A reminder of the why.
At race with the flame, the final flicker, the fade to black.
I still remind myself about an essay, “Swing Shift Kisses,” which reminisces about a parents’ kiss, that appeared in an anthology, This I Believe: On Love (John Wiley & Sons, 2011). A warm glow of enduring gratitude remains for a real writer friend, Margaret McMullan, who encouraged my submission. Never mind that my mother was the only other person who purchased the anthology to read my story. Now that she’s dead, there are two copies on my bookshelf that will not be read by anyone again … except for, maybe, a ghost. I fantasize about the spectral flicking of those pages, my mother’s paranormal pleasure in finding her enduring kiss in print, words not yet faded.
A reminder of the why.
At race with the flame, the final flicker, the fade to black.
I recall an essay about my grandfather making apple cider in Home Again: Essays and Memoirs from Indiana (Indiana Historical Society Press, 2006), and the enduring gratitude I feel for a real writer friend, Jim McGarrah, who, as editor, asked for a story. Kurt Vonnegut also had a story in the collection. I shared spine with fellow Hoosier KV. You can’t take that away from me. Never mind that it happened 17 years ago. So it goes.
A reminder of the why.
At race with the flame, the final flicker, the fade to black.
I remind myself of something one of my newspaper editors, Stu Clampitt, wrote that sums up my column writing: “You never know what you’re going to get. Scott sometimes gives us high comedy, sometimes he tugs the heartstrings and brings a tear to the eye, and sometimes he pushes the envelope so far it annoys people. And that, dear readers, is exactly the way a good columnist should be.”
A reminder of the why.
At race with the flame, the final flicker, the fade to black.
I remind myself about my friendship with real deal writer Frances Park. I recently attended her book release party in Washington, D.C. to celebrate her wonderful new novel, The Summer My Sister Was Cleopatra Moon. It marked our first in-person meeting following a two-year correspondence that consisted of a lot of writer talk. Frances was as cool in person as I’d hoped. I was even referenced in the acknowledgements section of Cleopatra Moon: “Finally, to my friend and columnist Scott Saalman, who pored over every page of the draft, offering valuable advice, errata, and laughs.” I had to look up errata … it’s a pretty funky word. Recently, Frances helped me get published in a couple of national magazines. I am grateful for Frances, not only for the opportunities she provided, but for Frances simply being Frances.
Scott with Frances Park (middle) and his wife, Brynne, at a book launch party in Washington, D.C. last month. (Photo provided)
A reminder of the why.
At race with the flame, the final flicker, the fade to black.
I periodically re-read a fairly recent email received from my favorite poet, Indiana Poet Laureate Matthew Graham, who lit the spark for me during college in the mid-80s. We remain in touch. Recently, he surprised me with an email containing unsolicited kindness: “I’ve never told you this, but when you were my student and I was a young teacher not knowing what the hell I was doing or why I was in Indiana, you gave me hope. I saw great potential in you as a writer and as a person and I realized there was a good reason for me to be here. And that I could get better at what I wanted to do – be an O.K. teacher. And a fairly decent person. Thank you!” I remain grateful to Matthew for his almost 40-year encouragement.
Scott with current Indiana Poet Laureate Matthew Graham during a Will Read and Sing For Food benefit show at the Lincoln Amphitheatre in 2020. (Photo provided)
The return of spark, the call of the creative.
A dance of light in a very dark tunnel, a small much-needed sense of ascension before the dreaded descent.
A reminder of the why.
At race with the flame, the final flicker, the fade to black.
Write on.
Why not?
Email Scott at scottsaalman@gmail.com.